


first name free

by Karentt1



Series: Needle and Thread [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dark, F/M, GUYS GUYS, M/M, Not Beta Read, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, again if there are any mistakes, geralt is ready to kill for jaskier, i feel like it could be better but i have nothing to add, i love that bastard man, i really don't like this one that much, not graphic tho, please tell me so i can fix them, valdo is in this, which isnt good bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25077100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karentt1/pseuds/Karentt1
Summary: It was like Valdo said so long ago: “We must be beautiful to them. We must be something they love and we must be free. We must be ethereal. We must be inhuman. The name Julian is too perfect to them. It reminds them too much of themselves.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Needle and Thread [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813528
Comments: 27
Kudos: 92
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	first name free

**Author's Note:**

> ahhhhh fifth installment is here. i hope it lives up to your expectations! 
> 
> (The song Jaskier sings is I See Fire by Ed Sheeran. Its the only song from him i like.

There is a palace far away, hidden in the forest, surrounded by trees and rivers and mountains. The stones were grey, and the windows were stained glass, sending a wave of colours throughout the halls when the sun was highest in the sky. It was something right out of a fairy tale. 

In a few years, a group of knights from a far away kingdom hoping to earn some money would ravage it, shatter the glass, beat the stones until it was nothing more than a shell of its former glory, a wreckage of a home. They would take the stash of coins and leave the families dead bodies behind. But for now a boy and his parents and his Polish nanny lived here, sheltered from the world. 

Julian was a curious young boy. He tucked flowers in his hair, he ran the hour it took to get to the nearby village, and he wrote poetry on stones in ash. His father, a viscount, was a religious man, but he was mostly silent, leaving the child rearing to the wife. The mother was a sickly woman who couldn’t even hold Julian when he was a baby. The nanny, Lena, took care of him until he was five, and then Julian was free from any eyes. 

He loved beautiful things mostly. He loved them all, used to imagine them in his sleep. He thought everything was beautiful. Lips bitten red with anxiety, soft arms heavy with evidence of riches, ink stained fingers tips of men who wrote worlds into existence, the crease in girls hair when they took out their braids. He was a lover and he immortalized these things in his fourteen year old rambling. No one listened to his voice, but he was a bit too loud for the children to ignore. 

He used to imagine himself in court. When he was young, he used to imagine himself as the prince, sometimes even as the King. It was something every child pictured. It was wistful thinking, a hope for something better. In his daydreams Julian was perfect. 

When he was older, he pictured himself as a servant. He would imagine walking through the halls at night, knowing every secret the royals had to hide. He was lowly, so far below them, but he knew the things court members longed to get their fat fingers on. He would kneel before the prince, and the prince would only trust three people in his life; his mother, his lover, and his faithful servant. 

Of course, that daydream soon fell away with the promise of something better. A court poet. He loved it. The idea of every eye trained on him, from the highest of Queens to lowest of peasants, excited him. He would dance, spin tales, and everyone would know his name. He would have no master, kissing the hand of the Red Queen, then sleeping in the same bed as the White King. He would be unstoppable. 

“I think you’ll need a name for that,” Valdo murmured, leaning over the table during class, watching as Julian wrote out his dream. Julian was seventeen, learning in Oxenfurt, and he was finally free from the palace he called home for so long. He stopped his frantic pencil scratching, and turned over to his rival. 

“What’s wrong with Julian?” 

“Sweet little Jules,” Valdo cooed. “We are poets. We are performers. We capture the things other people are too busy to notice. Look at the King; do you think he stops and admires the way a single daisy looks among the wreckage of a burning field? No, all he cares about is the war that caused that flame. It’s up to us to point out the metaphor for him.” 

“What does a name have to do with anything?” 

“We must be beautiful to them. We must be something they love and we must be free. We must be ethereal. We must be inhuman. The name Julian is too perfect to them. It reminds them too much of themselves.” 

Julian sat and thought for a few seconds, tapping his feathered pen against the desk. “Do you have any suggestions?” 

“What about Dandelion?” 

“Why?” 

Valdo laughed, a sharp scraping sound on Julian's ears. “Because it’s a weed just like you. You’ll be crushed little Dandelion, just like that poor daisy beneath the King’s victory.” 

Julian lunged at him from across the desk, hands heading to Valdos throat. He was an angry young man; most young people are, just learning about the injustices in the world and how they’re told there is nothing they can do about it. 

Valdo screamed and the teachers came running over, pulling the two boys off of each other. One of them wrenched Julians hands behind his back, throwing him to the side. Another one pulled Valdo away, kicking and screaming in his arms, desperate for revenge. It was just another regular day between the two of them. The teachers were almost used to this. 

Three days later, Julian changed his name to Jaskier for no particular reason other than it was pretty. Valdo was a fucking idiot but he was right; no one would invite a poet named Julian into their court, and no one would invite someone named Dandelion either. Jaskier was beautiful, mysterious, but Valdo never stopped calling him a weed. 

Jaskier left university a year later, and resolved to never see Valdo again. 

* * *

When he was five years old, he wore ribbons in his hair, just like a girl would. He stole them from his mother's jewellery box at night, when the palace was sleeping. When a woman spends most of her time sleeping the years away in her bed, it was easy to get away with things, and Julian would run out of her room, his little hands full of colourful ribbons, excited to try them on. 

He would tie them up in his hair, a tiny ponytail at the back, or a mini bow tie in the front. He did it outside; he never had a mirror. Sometimes it was lopsided, sometimes it slipped out after five minutes, but he loved it. He was still in his King daydreams; the ribbons made him feel courtly. They made him feel royal. 

When he was nineteen, he didn’t have any money. He was Jaskier the bard, and he was fucking broke a good portion of the time. He shoved the bread they threw at him into his pockets to eat for later and he told himself one day he’d have it all. 

Then he met Geralt, the most beautiful man he ever saw in his life, and he vowed to follow him to the ends of the earth. He was infatuated; he coveted things he couldn’t have, things like the stars, and Geralt was the ultimate temptation. Jaskier fell hard and fast, and he forgot the stories his mother used to tell him when she was awake in bed, threading her hands through his hair. 

“The witcher is a cruel beast,” she croaked and Jaskier shivered beside her. “He’ll eat you alive.” 

Jaskier laughed now looking back on it. He couldn’t believe how silly those stories were. Geralt was gruff, he was emotionally repressed, but he wasn’t cruel. He allowed Jaskier to walk behind his horse, and Jaskier couldn’t ask for more from him.

When Jaskier was twenty, he had enough money for ribbons again. Between his hit song Toss A Coin, and the money he and Geralt pooled together, they often had just a little bit leftover. Jaskier stole it sometimes, and he bought pretty clothes and even prettier ribbons. They still made him feel beautiful, the way poets were supposed to be. 

He lost more ribbons than he bought. Sometimes he wondered where they were, if they were caught in tree branches, if they were tightly held in a little girls fist, or if they were being burned in flame. 

When he was twenty-one he found a new use for them; necklaces. It was during this time he cut his hair for the first time in a year. His hair was now too short for ribbons, and he couldn’t let them go to waste. A ribbon around the neck was a perfect accessory for every outfit, almost like a choker. 

He would gaze at himself in the mirror, smiling happily, and from behind him Geralt would shake his head at his vanity. Jaskier laughed; Geralt would never understand true beauty. He felt like a prince wearing them. Geralt didn’t feel anything from his beaten up armour. 

When he was twenty-two, Jaskier stopped wearing them suddenly. Even Geralt noticed when they stopped appearing around his neck. 

“Growing your hair out again?” he asked one day, walking along the trails of a picture perfect forest, something the fae would dance in. Jaskier skipped behind him, plucking at his lute. Mushrooms and moss dotted the path, and Jaskier was sure to incorporate it in song. 

“Of course. I need a place to tie my treasures don’t I?” he stopped, then continued. “I mean my ribbons if that’s not clear.” 

“I’m not an idiot Jaskier,” Geralt grunted, and Jaskier shrugged cheekily. “I thought you were wearing them as jewellery.” 

Jaskier sighed. The path straightened out, heading into a field of buttercups. The wind blew through the area and tousled Jaskiers clothes. He took a deep breath in and admired the beauty in front of him. He meant both the field and Geralt. “Well my dear,” he said. “It gets tiresome when drunk men tug on your neck and call it a collar, then offer one of their own.” 

Geralt looked back at him from Roach, and raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s true,” Jaskier huffed. “And it’s stupid. I know their intent behind it, and I know I’m very good looking, but I don’t need their hands on me. I do not need their silly opinion that I am not free.” 

“Don’t get too cocky Jaskier.” 

“I’m not cocky, it’s the truth,” Jaskier replied. He knew he was lovely; he knew people wanted him. He could see it in their drunken eyes when he performed, leaning into their space like he was about to kiss them. 

“I didn’t peg you as the type of man who cared what other people thought of you.” 

Jaskier ran ahead, towards the singular tree in the middle of the field on the top of a large tree, forcing Geralt to follow him away from the path. 

“My darling witcher,” he said. Geralt hopped off his horse, and tied her to a branch so she wouldn’t run off. They had been walking for hours. It was time for a break. “Don’t you hate it when people assume things that just aren’t true?” 

Geralt shrugged, coming to stand by Jaskier, who was staring down the hill, looking into the endless horizon. Jaskier knew Geralt was used to assumptions; people saw he was a witcher and thought he was a monster because of it. Jaskier would have thought Geralt would be tired of it by now. 

“I’m a poet,” Jaskier said, feeling the warm sun on his face. “I must be free or else I cannot create my songs. I can’t have anyone thinking I’m chained down, now can I?” 

“But what does it matter what they think?” 

“Oh Geralt,” Jaskier sighed dramatically, thinking of the words Valdo told him so long ago. “You just don’t understand. I can’t be trapped. How will I create things then? How will I run through the forest, how will I witness wars, how will I fall in love? I can’t have people thinking I’m trapped because then to them I’m just some pretty thing. No Geralt. I must be pretty, but my words must be prettier.” 

“You’re mad,” Geralt chuckled. It was clear he didn’t understand. Jaskier didn’t mind; Geralt had his own beauty in his work. Jaskier was just the one to find it. 

“I may be mad, but you’re not much better,” Jaskier teased, then threw open his arms. “I’m free Geralt. I could be poor, I could be broken, I could be horrendous, but those things wouldn’t matter, just as long as I am free. I can’t be collared and I can’t have people thinking I am.” 

“I think your definition of freedom is different from mine,” Geralt said, collapsing down on the grass. Jaskier followed him, then pulled out an apple from his bag. “To me, freedom is the ability to be safe from those who want to hurt you. Freedom is being unafraid.” 

“No Geralt,” Jaskier said, biting into the apple. He didn’t notice Geralt's eyes following the motion, golden eyes so bright in the sunlight. “Freedom is the ability to do what you want, say what you want, when you want. Freedom is the ability to make a choice.” 

“Isn’t that being taken away from you? You’re being forced to stop wearing your ribbons because of men you hate.” 

“No Geralt, because I’m still making that choice to do so.” 

Geralt shook his head, but he didn’t say another word. The conversation was over between them, and Jaskier took out his notebook, ready to write a new song. The sun was warm on his face, and he could still taste the apple juice on his tongue. To him there was nothing more perfect than that moment. 

When he was twenty-three he could wear ribbons in his hair again. That was the same month the inn burned down, and all his clothes and pretty things with it. That was the month Geralt promised new ones. 

* * *

“Geralt, you’re good with a needle right?” Jaskier whined, slamming the door open to their shared room and coming up to Geralt. He was sitting on their bed, flipping through a small journal he used to make notes. He looked up from the pages when Jaskier flopped down beside him, looking defeated. 

“What do you want me to fix?” 

Jaskier sheepishly ran a hand through his hair. “I may have ran into some trouble with a husband whose wife I may have made love to,” he said nervously, tapping his finger. Geralt rolled his eyes. 

“What kind of trouble?” 

“He may have caught us together in his dead mother's bed, threatened to kill me, chased me out, threw a knife that ripped my new shirt.” 

“Jesus Jaskier,” Geralt muttered, looking angry. Jaskier wasn’t even afraid; he knew Geralt would never hurt him. “This is why I told you to come right home from the tavern, not make any detours.” 

“I'm sorry,” Jaskier cried, handing over the torn shirt. Geralt took it from him, then pulled out his pouch, and picked a needle to use. “But you would have done the same. The woman was a dream Geralt. I think I’ll write a song about her.” 

“Please don’t,” Geralt muttered under his breath, beginning to patch up the hole. The two were silent for a few seconds, before Geralt stopped his sewing. “Dead mother's bed? Really Jaskier?” 

Jaskier waved him off like it was no big deal, and Geralt started up his sewing once again. “The woman said it would be dishonourable to do it in her wedding bed and I agreed.” 

“So a dead person's bed is better, got it.” 

* * *

When Jaskier was twenty-five, Geralt let him have a ribbon. 

Let him. Geralt let him. 

Jaskier said thank you because what else was he supposed to say? It was very pretty too. It was a lilac purple with lace on the edges in the shape of flowers and birds. It made Jaskier feel important, but also in the way of a decoration, like the way rich folk kept their daggers in perfect shape. Like Geralt was making him pretty. 

Jaskier promised himself he would never be owned, that he would be free forever. He didn’t know what this was. He didn’t feel like an object. He still felt like a human being, and Geralt never used him like one. In fact, things were almost normal. Geralt went out of his way not to even brush fingers, just like he did before. The only difference was that Jaskier stopped trying to reach out. He was perfectly content with never touching skin with the man. Geralt never looked at him with any less respect. 

All he knew is that he was no longer free. 

Jaskier knew because he couldn’t run without Geralt chasing after him. He knew he couldn’t say the wrong thing because then his words would be taken just like his pen. He knew he couldn’t head off on his own because then Geralt would worry about him, like Jaskier couldn’t take care of himself. 

Jaskier knew he was pretty. He knew people looked at him with lust and jealousy. He supposed it made Geralt happy to have someone so precious with him. He supposed it made Geralt happy to have a purpose better than just hunting monsters. Maybe that was why he still stayed with Geralt. Maybe there was a part of him that still loved him and wanted Geralt to have better than what he was used to. Geralt had been treated like shit his entire life; that was why he was so reluctant to let go of the one person who was kind and unafraid. 

So when Geralt offered him some money, and said he could buy whatever he wanted, Jaskier took it and he bought something he thought was beautiful. He didn’t argue. He didn’t know what would happen if he did. And he brought himself an expensive ribbon, something he could hide away in his pocket. 

He asked Geralt to tie it in his hair. Geralt obliged. His fingers were clumsy, large and uncoordinated, but it worked. At the back of his hair was a tiny bow, and he wore his white clothes to match the light purple. He looked ethereal, like Valdo said he had to. 

It was humiliating. He couldn’t help but feel it was slightly dehumanising. But he couldn’t deny that a ribbon in his hair was better than one in his lips. 

* * *

It was nighttime during the summer. Jaskier thought that maybe it was 12 o’clock. The fire crackled in front of them, turning Jaskiers cheeks rosy, and Geralt's eyes into pools of liquid honey. Somewhere in the distance a monster howled and Geralt kept his sword close so he could protect them. 

Jaskiers fingers tapped against his sides, creating a beat with his hands. He only created three notes represented by hands; a fist, a palm, and a two fingered tap. Using these he created mini songs, thinking of simple lyrics to sing along inside his head. If he didn’t have his lute, at least he could do this. They reminded him of the children's songs his nanny used to sing to him. 

“Why don’t you sing?” Geralt asked after a few minutes. His voice sounded hesitant, like he had to work up the courage to say the words. Jaskier startled and looked up, watching as Geralts eyes were trained on his moving hand. 

“I didn’t think you liked it.” 

“Since when do you care about that?” 

Since he sewed his lips shut when Jaskier spoke about caring for him. Ever since Jaskier ran from him, leaving behind his lute where Geralt smashed it in rage. Ever since Geralt glared at him when Jaskier sang under his breath and Geralt sewed it up again, this time with pretty pink. 

“I just thought that you would like some quiet.” 

Geralt was silent for a few more seconds. “I like your voice,” he said softly. “Sometimes things become too much for me. Sometimes your voice never stops, and sometimes you lie. It’s not your fault that you can’t shut up. Sometimes I need to help make sure you do. But I think your songs are nice.” 

It was the most words Jaskier had heard him speak in years. He gaped at the witcher. “I didn’t know that,” he whispered eventually, and Geralt nodded his head. 

“It’s quiet out. My head doesn’t hurt. You can sing right now if you want.” 

Jaskiers hand tapped anxiously on his leg. He didn’t know if it was a game or not. He didn’t think it was, Geralt never the type of person to beat around the bush. But then Jaskier remembered the chase around the forest, Geralt laughing behind him like he enjoyed Jaskiers frantic attempt to escape. He didn’t know what to think. 

“ _ Oh misty eye, _ ” he started, so quietly it wasn’t heard over the flame. But Geralt's inhuman hearing picked it up and he leaned forward. “ _ Of the mountain below. Keep careful watch of my brother's soul.”  _

The wind howled above the campsite. They had eaten dinner already, Geralt's meat raw. That was a strange witcher quirk, Jaskier knew. Sometimes they needed raw meat instead, meat still covered in blood. 

“ _ And should the sky be filled with fire and smoke,”  _ Jaskier continued, a little bit louder. “ _ Keep watching over Durin's son.”  _

Geralt smiled at him, and in the light of the dying coals, Jaskier softly smiled back. 

* * *

Geralt was asleep now, curled around Jaskiers body in case someone tried to take him during the night. Jaskier thought it was a strange fear; they were the only ones around for miles. Geralt's eyelids fluttered slightly, and Jaskier watched him, wondering what he was dreaming about. 

It was too hot for him. Their body heat together made Jaskier sweat. His entire body felt like a fever, like something inside of him was burning up, filling his lungs with smoke. 

Jaskier watched Geralt murmur something under his breath, but Jaskier couldn’t make it out. He didn’t try to. He didn’t think it was important. 

He didn’t know what to make of the man. Geralt was an enigma to him; Jaskier felt like he had bits and pieces of understanding, but he still didn’t have it all. He wondered if Geralt knew Jaskier was terrified of him. He wondered if Geralt knew Jaskier sometimes sang under his breath when Geralt went away because then he knew for sure he was safe. He wondered if Geralt was telling the truth when he said he liked Jaskiers singing, or if he just wanted Jaskier back. 

Jaskier slowly slipped out of Geralt's arms. It took a few minutes; this was something that couldn’t be rushed. Geralt was desensitized to Jaskiers small movements he made in his sleep, but one big one would set him off. 

Jaskier wasn’t running. But he still had one thing left to do. 

He made it out of Geralt's grip and wandered over a few feet into the woods. An owl made a sound above him, and Jaskier wanted that bird dead so he didn’t wake Geralt. He brought a finger to his lips, hoping the bird understood. Miraculously, the bird stayed quiet and Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief. 

Jaskier reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring Yennefer gave him. It glowed even brighter in the dark and Jaskier was worried that maybe Geralt would see it, but Geralt didn’t move. Jaskier turned back to ring. 

He stared at it for a few seconds, contemplating. He was grateful to Yennefer for thinking of him. He didn’t even know she cared for him. No matter what she said, Jaskier knew better now. Her eyes were softer than she thought. Her actions spoke louder than her words. 

It was okay. Jaskier didn’t hate her either. 

He turned it over in his hands. His last hope for freedom. He felt like he was standing in front of a giant doorway, the last one in his life, holding the key to unlock it. This was his hope, this was his chance. Geralt said he liked Jaskiers singing, so why was he silenced? Why was he afraid to speak up if Geralt didn’t mind? 

He stared at it, the glow reflecting in his eyes. He brought it up to his lips and kissed it, long and gentle. He wondered if Yennefer could feel it through the metal. Maybe, he hoped. Maybe she would know. He brought his lips away, and the metal was warm. 

He knelt down, holding the ring tightly in his fist and he dug a tiny hole, perhaps a foot deep. He pushed the ring in, making sure it was nestled in the mud, and he covered the hole until the glow was gone, and Jaskiers eyes were left to get used to the darkness once more. 

He threw away his key. He walked away from the door. He vowed to follow Geralt to the ends of the earth, and he knew Geralt needed him now more than ever. He could sacrifice his lips for love. And maybe when he died he’d be rewarded. Geralt would still be alive when Jaskier was brought back. Jaskier could scorn Geralt then. Right now he just couldn’t. 

He stood up and walked over to Geralt, ready to sleep, confident in his decision. 

* * *

He woke up on a soft mattress, covered in purple silk blankets. He had been dressed in cotton pyjamas and his hands were clean from dirt. He blinked his eyes, smelling sweet incense, and he sat up, rubbing his face free from sleep. 

Maybe it was still a dream. This couldn’t be happening to him. 

“Oh good, you’re awake,” a voice said, and Jaskier looked to the side to see Yennefer sitting in an armchair next to his bed. She was reading a book, and she closed it when Jaskier moved. She looked beautiful, almost like an angel. The songs Jaskier could write for her. 

“What am I doing here? I got rid of the ring,” Jaskier said, voice still rough with sleep. He tried to sit up, but Yennefer gently pushed him back down again, so his head was nestled back on the soft pillow. Jaskier looked up at her with wide eyes, and she smiled softly. 

“You called me,” Yennefer comforted, running a hand through his hair. Her eyes were above him, and Jaskier was already waxing more poetry about the unique colour. He fell in love too quickly after all. 

“I didn’t throw it,” Jaskier replied, slowly growing terrified. 

“It still touched the ground,” Yennefer whispered. “That’s all it takes.” 

Jaskier began to thrash inside the blankets, feeling panic rise in him. It closed his throat and clogged his brain. He could barely breathe anymore. “I can’t be here, he’ll wake up soon, and he’ll kill you. You can’t die Yennefer, not for me.” 

“It’s taken care of,” Yennefer cooed, brushing his hair back with one hand, holding him down with another. “Trust me, you’ll be okay.” 

“No no no, please,” Jaskier begged, trying to get her off of him but failing. She was a sorceress, Yennefer of fucking Vengerberg. He was powerless in the face of her. At least with Geralt he had some control. 

“It’s alright,” Yennefer repeated. “You’re safe now.” 

If only Jaskier felt like it. 

* * *

Geralt woke up alone, feeling no warm weight in his arms. He was wide awake in seconds, looking around frantically. He couldn’t see Jaskier anywhere, and he couldn’t see his bag when he left it last night. He wondered briefly if Jaskier had run again, but he knew in his heart he hadn’t. If Jaskier had run there would be footsteps leading somewhere. There was none that Geralt could see. 

Geralt stood up, the blanket falling from his shoulder. He took a deep breath in and there in the wind, still faintly visible, was the smell of gooseberries and lilac. 

Yennefer. He should have known. That manipulative witch. 

He grabbed his swords and packed up his things, moving fast. He could feel anger burn inside of him, both at himself and Yennefer. Himself for failing to protect Jaskier, the only person alive who didn’t scorn him, and Yennefer for taking Jaskier from him. His fingertips tingled, and he longed to feel Yennefer's throat in his hands. When he got Jaskier back, he was locking the man far away where no one could ever touch him again. At least there Jaskier would be protected permanently. 

Geralt took a deep breath, strapping his swords to his back. He failed once before; he wouldn't fail again. 

Across the campsite he saw something left behind in the dirt, standing out among the brown. He wandered over and picked it up, holding it close to his face as it dangled down from his fingertips. 

The lilac lace ribbon Jaskier had bought. It must have fallen out of Jaskiers bag when he was being kidnapped. Geralt brought it to his nose and breathed deeply, relishing in the scent of Jaskier, citrus and vanilla. He reached behind him, and tied his hair together with it, keeping a piece of Jaskier close to him. 

He walked over to Roach, grabbing her reins tightly. “Lets go girl,” he whispered, and Roach made a small sound. Geralt hopped on her, then squeezed his legs together. Roach bucked up, then ran forward, running through the forest, following the scent of gooseberries and lilacs. 

Geralt was going to save Jaskier no matter the consequences. Jaskier was his, no one else's. He would fight until the world burned for Jaskier. He was prepared to. 

He barely even noticed the eyes between the trees, watching him leave. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Comments are appreciated!


End file.
